


Christmas in the Commonwealth

by Jeepers_Creepers



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Duncan comes home for Christmas, F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, MacCready's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 00:58:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9048955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeepers_Creepers/pseuds/Jeepers_Creepers
Summary: MacCready gets a surpise visitor for Christmas, and it's the best present anyone's ever given him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheWriterOfFira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWriterOfFira/gifts).



Clarke had been acting funny all week. There was something she wasn't sharing, and judging by the looks people gave him he was about the only one who didn't know.

Being cut out of the loop got under his skin—it was just like what kids in Little Lamplight would do before they announced they wanted a new Mayor. Clarke, though...she was different. Or at least he thought she was. Hell or highwater she had his back, and until the day she decided she didn't need him anymore he would be there to cover hers.

Hell, she had even gotten him to help with this whole Christmas thing: dragging a tree to Sanctuary, finding those weird bulbs everyone seemed to have a collection of in the basement pre-war, going through string after string of broken lights—fighting through a store of nothing but Christmas crap (MacCready never wanted to see a skeleton in a santa hat _again_ )—just for Sanctuary to sit like a nightlight in the middle of the wastes.

Trying to push it out of his mind, he watched her wrap the garland around the tree with delicate hands. “So, what do you think?” she asked, standing back to admire her work.

MacCready never imagined he’d get to live somewhere that looked like the seasonal edition of Picket Fences, but if anyone could do it he wasn't surprised it was her. Even Dogmeat was running around with reindeer antlers on his head, and the cynical part of him said it was silly—the part raised by the wasteland, the part that scrounged for food and fought for every scrap said it was frivolous and not worth anyone’s time...but just knowing how it made everyone so happy—how it made _her_ so happy...somehow he had learned to let it go.

The light danced off the windows and twinkled every time Clarke fidgeted with the tree, trying to get it just right. He couldn't help the smile that creeped onto his face, “Perfect far as I can tell, partner.”

I mean, the mistletoe made him sneeze and there was snow up to your ankles outside, but MacCready didn't feel like complaining. Even his worries about his companion died in his throat when he looked at her, all cheerful and humming christmas songs and crap.

She’d call him a scrooge if he decided to be sour, and he couldn't say he’d blame her. She wasn't the one making him feel like a bad parent...Hell, she was probably thinking the same things he was. _I wonder what he's doing right now? Is he lonely? Is he cold?...Is he thinking of me?_ He closed his eyes, trying to get rid of that thought.

 _Don't._ He couldn't let himself fall into that old, familiar trap—that's what ate him from the inside out, left him rubbing at his eyes at night and chain smoking until he felt ill. “Will you put this on top of the tree for me? I can't quite reach.” Clarke’s voice cut through the mercenary’s thoughts and he was happy for the distraction, hopping up from his seat to take whatever it was she wanted to be on the tree.

She placed a small, battered and dinky little angel into the palm of his hand, one wing scorched by flame. When he opened his mouth to snark and saw how her eyes refused to meet his...he felt like an idiot. It was still such an odd feeling, looking at Elenora and then back to the wastes. It was her angel, her house, back when everything was all new and clean and without holes in the roof.

“How do you do it?” he asked quietly, fingers tracing along the rough edges of the figurine. Everything he had ever known was rough, frayed on the edges or irradiated and bent. Deep down he was scared to see how she must see it—see _him_. Two hundred years into the future and all she got was a sniper who crashed asleep on her couch in her ruins of a home in what she once explained was a “parlor”. He didn't even know what that meant.

“I do it for Shaun,” she said quietly, eyes falling to an ornament that said ‘Baby’s First Christmas’. The little bell rung as she touched it and she was unable to hide the wince it caused, like it burnt to the touch. She knew better than to keep looking at it, instead letting her gaze meander around the room. “If I let it cripple me then I don't get to be a mother to him, and I owe him that. I keep going because if I don't then I _do_ lose everything.”

MacCready nodded, knowing full well how that felt. He rolled the little angel over in his hand, looking at it with much fonder eyes as he leaned up to place it on the top. “You know, it's actually kind of cute,” he commented, taking a step back to look at it.

“It looks like shit,” Clarke laughed. She put a hand on his shoulder as she passed, looking up into his eyes, “Thanks, RJ.” It was perfect: the light wrapping her in a warm glow, the reflections of ornaments dazzling in her eyes, her dark hair like tinsel down her shoulder. She was beautiful. _But what is she hiding?_

The warm thoughts, invading him like alcohol and twisting loosely down into his gut suddenly seized like a noose. He dropped his gaze, unwilling to meet such kind eyes. Of course there was something to ruin it. There was _always_ something to ruin it.

Once bitten twice shy, they say. By the seventieth bite you had earned the right to be wary. “Yeah,” he said, forcing his eyes around the room. He added a nod, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he headed for the door, “Sure thing.”

MacCready hated the cold, but for once he grit his teeth and took it because it was the better option. He needed some time to think by himself, and nowhere would afford him more privacy than the snow covered wastes.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Clarke—he wouldn't put his life in her hands on a day-to-day basis if he didn't, but her hiding things worried him. He felt like a pariah the way talk fell silent when he entered a room, or secret scraps of paper just so happened to be shoved into pockets as soon as he caught sight of them. If he didn't know any better he’d say he was being gaslighted.

MacCready took a deep breath, wiping his forehead as he leaned back to stargaze. A sigh escaped his lips—God, he hated puzzles.  
\---  
By the time Christmas Eve had rolled around Clarke was spending a lot more time with him, and MacCready’s fears had subsided. He couldn't live looking at everyone like there was a knife being held to his back.

Well, at least not with Elenora. No, she was too good for that—too _pre-war_ , happy to do something with nothing in return and live off hope and daisy chains or something. He didn't know. It seemed like he was constantly fighting just to tread water, much less help others. But somehow he had fallen for the one woman crew of the S.S. Savior, and sometimes it made him feel like a prick.

She gave so easily while MacCready felt like all he did was take. He’d take caps, space, food, clothes...Of course all that had changed once he fell in with her, but his first instinct was always to fight for what he wanted and who he cared about, which if it meant taking from others? So be it.

“Clarke?” he asked suddenly, meeting her eyes from where she sat under the Christmas tree, artfully arranging presents all wrapped up in newspaper and bows. Headlines ‘NUCLEAR WAR POSSIBLE’, ‘TENSIONS AT ALL-TIME HIGH’ covered with glitter and obscured with ribbon. Part of him wondered if that was intentional, in some small way.

He fiddled with his necklace, thinking of the charms on it. A helmet, a bottlecap, a bullet…and a heart. That was how she saw him. He forced himself to let go of the necklace, getting it all out at once, “Are you okay?” No, that wasn't what he meant. “Are we okay?” _Fuc-_ ”Frick, no, uhh, I didn't mean it. What I'm trying to ask is: you- you’re still happy with me, right?” _You aren't going to leave or something?_

Clarke laughed, eyebrows quirking in confusion, “Of course. Why do you ask?” Something about the holidays made him paranoid—everything was too quiet, too peaceful, too happy. He was happy with Lucy and look where that got him. But this was different—Clarke was different, he reminded himself. He couldn't keep worrying, not when it was her favorite time of the year. _Nothing bad gets to happen on Christmas_ , he thought. That's what she had said. Looking at the lights twinkling against the snow outside, he could almost believe it. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to settle his nerves. “No reason,” he said.  
\---  
MacCready woke up in a fine sheen of sweat. He went to get himself water from the kitchen, blindly stumbling through the dark past the Christmas tree. Old ghosts haunted him, and he wished he could have Christmas Eve night to himself for once. He had seen Lucy’s face in that tunnel more times than he could count.

The cold wind ruffled his hair, and he felt the cold sting of a snowflake on his face. _Snow? Wait- what the hell?_ It took a second for his sleep-addled mind to process.

Whirling around, he ran towards the open door, stopping just short of the snow. There were tracks, but they faded as soon as they crossed out from under the roof. _Elenora_. He froze.

He ran towards her room, calling her name, but no one answered back. She was gone, along with all her travel gear. He got about twenty feet into the snow until he realized he’d never find her in that weather. Maybe that was the point.

Utterly confused and up to his ankles in frozen agony, he trudged back inside and closed the door behind him, shaking off snow. He flipped on the light, determined to put on his boots and go trudging after her wherever the hell it was she had gone all by herself.

That's when he spotted it, sitting right on the table next to his makeshift bed. A note with his name on it, written in the kind of nice script he knew could only come from years of school. Pre-war school.

MacCready snatched it up, devouring the surprisingly short letter and finding even less answers than he had hoped. ‘Official Christmas business; I’ll be back in the morning.’

Part annoyed, part relieved, he flopped down onto the couch, clutching the crumpled paper in his hand. He had nothing to do but sigh and stare at the Christmas tree, grumpily wondering why Clarke hadn't asked him to go with her. It was dangerous out there alone. _What could be so important she has to leave Christmas Eve to get it?_

Truth be told he was feeling pretty sour: she was the one who got him into the “Christmas Season”, humming all the songs about magic reindeer and their bullying and going along with all the strange little traditions—and now here he was in the dead of night on Christmas Eve, alone and very un-jolly. It was hardly magical.

What had won MacCready over was that it was about family (granted, the conspiracy of parents lying to their children until around eight about a large, friendly old man who snuck into their homes at night through the roof certainly helped), and yet he was stuck there without anyone. It was irritating, and it was irritating that he cared so much.

He shoved his hat down over his eyes, tired of thinking about it. Somehow, while he sat there and thought of all the ways he would bitch at Clarke tomorrow, he drifted off, arms still crossed over his chest in righteous indignance.

The first rays of light had already started to paint Sanctuary in faint pinks and golds when MacCready heard a voice gently speaking his name. _Clarke_. “RJ,” it said again, and the feeling of a hand on his shoulder made him open his eyes.

There she was, grinning like he’d never seen before, none the worse for the wear. “I brought someone along to see you,” she said, and as soon as he looked over, leaning over and seeing Duncan looking right back at him...every complaint he had ever had died on his lips. He couldn't explain a better feeling.

His son was so much bigger, shyly gazing at him from behind Clarke, but MacCready knew those eyes. “Dad..?” the boy asked, soft and quiet. It was like the weight of the world was off MacCready's shoulders, and he scooped Duncan into his arms and hugged him. He felt the tears slip down his face and didn't care. If he died then and there he’d die happy.

It was an amazing feeling just to hold Duncan again, even through three layers of coats. It was a relief just to see him and the healthy color he had in his cheeks, so different than the sickly pallor he had had when he left. And it was all because of one woman.

He wanted to say something—to say thank you or I love you or a thousand different things that his mind couldn't even keep up with, but when his eyes caught hers she simply smiled and said, “Merry Christmas, RJ.”  
\---  
Everyone was over by the time the cocoa was done, and they all greeted Duncan with knowing smiles and waves. Even Marcy Long—who MacCready had never seen without a glare—kneeled down to tell him hello. Sometime in between all the scowls and jabs he had forgotten she had lost a child, too.

Presents were exchanged as Duncan sat on his dad’s lap, chatting excitedly about what he would get, and MacCready’s heart fell. How do you tell your son you didn't get him anything for Christmas?

“Hey, buddy…” MacCready started gently, meeting his hopeful eyes. “Your first present is right here,” Clarke interjected cheerfully, handing it into tiny waiting hands.

The tag read “To: Duncan From: MacCready”. Again he didn't know what to say. He was dumbfounded.

Duncan squealed with joy, holding up a toy MacCready recognized as something Clarke had bought a month ago out at Bunker Hill. _Waste of caps,_ he had thought. _Waste of caps..?_ The thought made him sick now. “And I’ve got mine over here,” Preston said, shaking a little newspaper wrapped box.

“You’ve got one comin’ from me, too, little man,” Sturges chimed in from where he stood, leaned up against the wall with a toothy grin.

Even that kook Mama Murphy, who sat in the rocker beside them, produced a small gift for the boy, “The Sight told me you was comin’, of course. Figured you deserved somethin’ special. Merry Christmas, kid.”

Duncan was overjoyed with all his gifts—Matchbox cars, tin toys, marbles, a cap gun, a slingshot, a teddy bear, and a tiny winter coat.

At the end, when all the gifts had been exchanged and Duncan was on his third cup of hot cocoa Clarke leaned down to him, speaking to him about his new bear with a softness that reminded MacCready she had a son, too. One that was far, far away, if he was anywhere at all. But he didn't see the sadness in her eyes—she didn't cry like he did, having to silently wipe his eyes every time he made eye contact with someone.

MacCready hated to cry in front of other people, but it was all he had done that day. And he didn't mind. He had Duncan, he had Clarke, and he had all these people who were willing to give some of what little they had to his son, just because he was his. Heck, Preston even patted him on the back when he passed by, smiling compassionately. Maybe he had more friends than he thought.  
\---  
After everyone else was gone and it was just the three of them, Clarke pulled a small gift from her coat. “Here you go, Duncan,” she smiled, handing him one of the smallest boxes of the day.

It was in real wrapping paper, glittering gold and a sight to see. MacCready felt her quickly squeeze his hand and instead of letting go he interlaced his fingers with hers, comforted by how natural it felt. They watched Duncan excitedly open the package, marvelling at the paper. Inside the old box sat a small soldier, whittled out of wood and plain compared to it’s presentation.

The same one Lucy had given MacCready years ago. The same one MacCready had given Clarke.

“I hope you don't mind,” he heard her whisper, leaning her head on his shoulder, “I know it's in poor taste to regift a gift.” He couldn't help but smile, despite the immediate tears that came to his eyes. She had brought Duncan here, told everyone else so he could have a warm reception, made sure he had a gift from his father, and gave him one of the things she treasured most because it was something MacCready had treasured.

Tears poured down his face and he made sure to be quiet so Duncan wouldn't know. Duncan didn't _need_ to know. Lucy was his cross to bear, and it was one far too large for such small shoulders.

No, to Duncan all it would ever be was a small wooden soldier, clad in green and brown paint. He had MacCready and Elenora and all his new friends who would love and care for him. So that was all it needed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [ TheWriterOfFira ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWriterOfFira/pseuds/TheWriterOfFira) who is a talented cupcake that loves MacCready and wanted to get to see some of him with Duncan! Merry Christmas, doll, you're the tops and I hope you like it. <3
> 
> And as always thanks to my friend [ Generalatomicsgalleria ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Badwolfinwinterfell/pseuds/generalatomicsgalleria) for her help and support!


End file.
